Hideaway Heart Page 2

Feeling nothing but sympathy for the poor unsuspecting Clive Huston, Chris queried,

  "Couldn't you alter your plans for this island? I mean ..."

  He stopped pacing to eye her keenly.

  "For someone who was all out for an airstrip surveying contract you're acting mighty peculiar. First you suggest we sail in, now you'd like me to forget the airstrip."

  "Only because I feel..."

  "Feelings, Miss Dawnay, don't come into business."

  "So I've noticed."

  "And I don't alter my plans. I get others to alter theirs."

  "Of course." Chris turned towards the door.

  "Look," he was impatient again, "there's nothing sinister in this, you know. It's not a Mata Hari assignment!"

  Oh no? Chris thought. A remote island! A strange man!

  "Whoever does talk Huston into leaving can only be doing him a favour. He is a very talented carver of ship's figureheads, but he hasn't had an offer in months. I happen to know of at least four commissions he would be handed on a plate if he came to England."

  Chris found herself staring across at the map. She was trying to picture the smooth-haired young man living, not very successfully, on his own. Perhaps he was very lonely ... maybe even miserable. What if he had only returned to the island to brood over his broken romance? If that were the case, would it be wrong to... ?

  She pulled herself up sharply. What was she thinking of? The contract was a tempting offer, yes, but it was fantastic to think she could just drop in on this Clive Huston and say,

  "Excuse me, but you're right in the middle of Hideaway's proposed airstrip. Would you mind moving out?"

  Her lips twitched at the thought. Maybe not a Mata Hari assignment, but the job was, to say the least, theatrical!

  The man across the room eyed her moodily.

  "Well, thanks for letting me know you think it's amusing," he said coldly.

  "I don't think it's amusing," she replied quietly. "I think it's inhuman. I don't see why he has to leave the island. Why can't you give him another site for his house away from your airstrip?"

  "I'm not against that."

  "You're not?" Chris turned round, surprised, and walked back a little way. "Well, why didn't you say so?"

  "Because I consider he will be more use to himself if he pulls out."

  There was a silence then in which he eyed her levelly.

  "Well?" he said at last.

  "When would I have to go?" asked Chris.

  "Right away. I have a villa on an adjoining island. You could put up there until we decide the best means of approach."

  Chris considered a moment.

  "I suppose I just couldn't go to Cyrecano and arrange some kind of agreement between you two?''

  He shook his head.

  "There are several reasons why you can't do that. One of them is that as soon as Huston got wind that you were working for me the idea would die a death. Another is that since returning to the island he's showing quite a tendency to stay put, so you would be just wasting your time."

  " So there really is no other way ?''

  "No other way," he echoed. "And don't forget the airstrip means the contract.''

  "The contract ... the carrot dangled in front of the too reluctant donkey."

  "Donkey?" The austere features developed a kind of hard humour as his eyes slid over her. "Little brown mouse, perhaps."

  "Do you think it's worth shipping a brown mouse out to Clive Huston?"

  "From what I've seen of him you'd be two of a kind."

  Chris swung her mind back to the unknown inhabitant of Cyrecano. By the sound of it he could do with an ally against one hard-bitten tycoon. She had a good mind to go just to see that he was getting a fair deal, and even if she didn't go, no doubt some other heartless way would be found to oust him.

  It might, she pondered, be possible to work something out ... and it might not be necessary to mislead him hardly at all.

  "Well?" It was more a sigh of impatience.

  Chris nodded her head slowly.

  "All right," and then she plunged, "I'll go."

  "Good. I'll make the arrangements."

  "What about my father ?"

  He had returned to the desk and was already engrossed in the sheaf of papers.

  "Tell him the contract is his provisionally, and that you have agreed to do a few weeks' work for me."

  CHAPTER TWO

  An industrious breeze tacked white thread waves across a satin sea, bringing a breath of air to the heat-bound island of Cathai. In the harbour nut-brown caiques responded to the ripple like so many mules jostling to be free and beyond the garden of the Villa Tamerlane long-leaved olives gossiped among themselves.

  From her chair Chris gazed at the pink-washed opulence. The Villa Tamerlane . . . like something out of the Arabian Nights, she mused, with its marble floors and exotic furnishings. She still hadn't got used to the sunken bath in her bedroom, nor to the galaxy of servants that Boyd Wyatt apparently thought fit to employ.

  The name made her jerk from her chair and pace restlessly. How much longer would she have to wait here? Her instructions had been to stay at the villa until the arrival of Boyd Wyatt, but this was already the third day and there was still no sign of him. As she gazed at a cloud of rock-rose Chris's mind went back to that day when she had left Galconda Mansions. Making her way across town, she had suddenly been seized with a bout of panic How could she go through with this thing that Boyd Wyatt was asking? No, she couldn't .. she would have to tell him that she had changed her mind.

  Arriving back at "Medway", she had found her father poring over columns of figures. His face had been more drawn and pale than ever.

  "Looks like I made a mistake, Chris," he greeted her. "Things are going to be much tighter than I thought."

  Turning an arm round his shoulder, she hadn't meant to say there was no need to worry, that they had got the contract. But she was glad she had. To see the fear slide from his eyes to be replaced by a flush of hope was worth anything the job might involve.

  She had told him about her promise to work for Boyd Wyatt for a few weeks, but knew that in his excitement he listened with only half an ear.

  "I'll be back as soon as I can, Dad, but how will you cope ?"

  Her father's eyes had held a new light.

  "Don't worry about me, Chris. In a few weeks' time we'll be up to our necks in work. I've got plenty to do at this end paving the way."

  So here she was, her bridges burnt and her father all unsuspecting.

  From the parapet wall she gazed down to a violet sea fringed with copper beeches, thinking that had she been on the island under any other circumstances she might have succumbed a little to its magic... but what was the point of such surmising? She was here on the orders of one autocratic business tycoon who knew what he wanted and went all out to get it, and the sooner she was finished with him the better.

  No doubt he was being held up now because of one of his precious business deals.

  Chris continued to stare below. One thing was certain - she couldn't go another day mooning in the garden; she would have to go for a walk at least. One couldn't sit and look at such a view for three days without wanting to know a little more about it. Though she suppressed a desire to hum a tune as she climbed the wrought-iron staircase to her room it was difficult not to feel a certain buoyancy at the thoughts of exploring the island. Even the meagre wardrobe that she had brought with her couldn't dampen the excitement.

  Chris had never been much interested in clothes. Most of her time was spent with men considerably older than herself. A shirt and a pair of slacks had always seemed adequate for her work on the airstrips. The dresses she possessed had been bought years ago and served the purpose when serving up afternoon tea or browsing at the library.

  There was one dress, though. She had bought it last year in a splurge of femininity and then decided it wasn't for her. She went to the wall wardrobe that ran the length of the room and from the forlorn c
luster nestling at one end drew out a glazed cotton. Gay parrot colours slashed a black background. It had a strapless sun-top and a matching jacket which she decided could be left on the hanger in this heat.

  Standing back from the mirror, Chris examined the finished result with mixed feelings. Should she go out in the dress after all? She felt as she had done when trying on the dress for the first time ... all neck and shoulders. Perhaps if she unpinned her hair?

  Brushed smoothly back from the brow, it fell in thick waves to the nape of her neck. That might be better. The ivory necklace her father had bought for her one year seemed to emphasize the tan she had acquired since her arrival at the villa.

  Not daring to take a second look in case she changed her mind, Chris swept up a handbag and hurried downstairs. There was no one about to pass the word on to that she was going out, but no doubt some well-trained eye in the interior was aware of her plans.

  Once through the gates of the villa she forgot her self-consciousness over the dress and became completely absorbed in her surroundings. As she had arrived on the island in the evening everything was still a surprise. She had heard that some of the islands were more Turkish than Greek, and this seemed to apply to Cathai.

  Curved iron street lamps flanked the narrow roadway. There were shady courtyards and arched doorways and an occasional mosque in the distance. Protruding balconies had a distinctive Turkish flavour, and many of the passers-by were dark-eyed and wore the flowing robes and shrouded faces of the East.

  As if to even things up the harbour appeared typically Greek. There were the tall-masted caiques and stubble-faced fishermen and the music coming from the open-air cafes had that exciting twangy sound that the Greeks seemed to favour.

  Mingling with the tourists, Chris strolled along the waterfront, aware of a youthful group just up ahead. She passed tables set beneath the trees, sometimes a fishing net spread out to dry in the branches, dodged donkey carts and an occasional meandering goat. At the far end of the quay, looking quite incongruous between two battered salt-caked caiques, was a great white yacht. Chris didn't stop to read the name, but she thought it rode the swell, a little disdainful of its neighbours.

  Just a few steps further on it happened ... how, she wasn't quite sure.

  Perhaps she had been gazing up at the cubical white houses that hugged the cliffs in wedding cake tiers, or the tar-black cypresses beyond, but suddenly... crrrmph! With a shock she realized she had walked straight into the chest of an oncoming young man. Apologizing profusely, she waited for him to release her from the tight grip of his arms, but he merely grinned down with a flash of white teeth.

  From the humorous glint in his eye and the throaty laughter of his companions Chris suspected that he had deliberately put himself in her path as she had gazed up at the cliffs. In blushing confusion she stammered out a-request to be released, but the young man only turned his head on one side seemingly uncomprehending.

  Much to the amusement of his friends he gabbled out several unintelligible sentences, and Chris knew her first bout of panic at her complete ignorance of the Greek language. She was just about to struggle madly when the young man broke cheerfully into English.

  "Ah, so! Madame is sorry . . . and Demetrius, he is sorry too!"

  He smiled gallantly down at her, still holding her tight in his arms. His friends laughed and applauded loudly, and Chris knew then that they were merely being mischievous. They were a jolly set, bursting with high spirits; it was impossible not to get caught up in the fun. She soon found herself laughing too.

  It was unfortunate that at that particular moment a yellow taxi should trundle by. In the fraction of a second that Chris's gaze strayed from the liquid eyes of the man who held her, it came smack up against a frosted blue-grey stare . . . wood-smoke buffeted by Siberian winds.

  She was just in time to see the ramrod shoulders of Boyd Wyatt receding as the taxi turned the corner away from the harbour.

  Oh, good heavens! Now what?

  Worriedly she struggled free from the man's hold and would have run off futilely after the disappearing taxi but for the cries of disappointment from behind.

  "Ah, but no! We have only just found you. You cannot go now!"

  Chris turned back with a wan smile. What was the point, anyway? She would never catch the taxi now and it would take her at least half an hour to walk back... there were other taxis, but why should she bother? After waiting three days for Boyd Wyatt she reckoned he could wait a couple of hours for her!

  Recklessly she returned to her new-found friends, who with exaggerated sighs of relief and theatrical displays of pleasure surrounded her. She walked along in their midst.

  There were six men and two girls, and Demetrius told her they were making a film about Greece. The introductions were made - a string of Greek-sounding names that Chris could never hope to remember - and then she was invited to drink thick syrupy coffee at one of the open-air tables. Demetrius told her that he had studied law in England but had branched out into the film world on his return to Greece. He was a thin, intense young man with expressive hands and a ready smile. Occasionally when he became excited he would leave his stilted English and lapse into a babble of Greek that Chris could only guess at with a smile.

  Time passed in a clatter of coffee cups, gales of laughter and the occasional intelligible conversation. Though Chris enjoyed the company she had never been really free of a nagging doubt that she ought to have hurried straight back to the villa. Well, it was no use worrying now.

  She said goodbye to Demetrius and his friends as they drifted back to their boat, and turned reluctantly towards the pink villa hanging almost at the top of the cliff. The curious half light between day and dusk hung over the garden as she entered the gates, perfume from the blossoms so thick as to be almost tangible.

  She glanced down at her bare arms and shoulders and hoped it would be possible to steal silently up to her room before her presence was known. She knew a need to hide behind something more formal for her next encounter with Boyd Wyatt. Somehow she felt it wasn't going to be an easy meeting.

  She had made the pergola-lined steps and was three paces across the hall when a door was suddenly swung wide. Her temporary employer eyed her coldly. As she stood staring up at him he strolled out. The drooping mouth tightened into a scornful smile.

  "So our little brown sparrow has developed into a colourful sun-bird! Whom do we have to thank for that?"

  Chris looked down at her dress. She would have given anything to swing a scarf or a stole around her bare shoulders. She wanted to reply cleverly, "Brown sparrow, Mr. Wyatt? I believe the subject was mice last time we met!''

  But she stood tongue-tied and awkward like a small child who had been caught dressing up. He walked slowly around her, immense in charcoal grey and white winged cuffs, Savile Row to the last word. His shoes had that inky glow that shoes have when happily wed to the shoebrush. She raised her eyes to mumble,

  "It was so hot... I didn't know what to wear..."

  "By the look of it you only just made wearing anything," he sneered, the eyes burning her skin. "Still, your friends down in the harbour seemed to approve."

  "If you mean..."

  He put up a disinterested hand.

  "You needn't bother to explain. I made no rules that you couldn't amuse yourself while in my employ. Just don't lose sight of the fact that it's Huston you're here to charm.''

  "I'm hardly likely to do that," Chris replied evenly, though her bosom was rising and falling with suppressed emotion. "I thought as I had waited almost three days at the villa, a walk outside the gates wouldn't be out of order, and this is the only really cool dress I possess. I had only just met the group on the quay when you went by. It wasn't my fault they were in excessively high spirits."

  He looked surprised that someone actually had the audacity to defend themselves. No doubt he was used to the more slave-like approach. Well, he wouldn't get it from her! Feeling better after the onrush, she brought her
eyes squarely up to meet his and was rewarded by another sweep of disapproval before he snapped,

  "I suggest you get into something a little less revealing and come straight down to dinner."

  He turned back inside the room, closing the door with a neat click.

  Of all the pompous, overbearing, high-and-mighty...!

  Chris fumed all the way up the stairs. Why on earth had she consented to come here? She must have been mad! The whole set-up was mad anyway ... if it wasn't for her father and the contract...

  Hastily she showered and changed into navy blue linen, with check Peter Pan collar and cuffs. Her hair back in its natural pleat now and a light dusting of powder on flushed cheeks, she felt a little like her old self and quite uncaring of any more critical scrutiny that might be directed her way.

  Dinner was served in a long room with bronze walls and tiled frescoes that overlooked the harbour. Chris caught the winking town to the left as she took her place at the end of a carved table. Boyd Wyatt sat at the other end. A large bowl of pink and yellow blossom mercifully separated them.

  Since her arrival at the villa Chris had grown used to eating from a tray in her own room, but obviously the presence of the owner demanded something a little more than that. She watched as two very efficient-looking servants in black trousers and white jackets moved briskly back and forth serving deliciously cooked food from gleaming silverware.

  She stole a glance at the taciturn features between the flowers, having armoured herself against any more of his remarks about her adventure down at the harbour. He made no mention of it, or anything else for that matter. She laboured through the meal, painfully aware of his presence beyond the blossom, yet relieved that he made no effort at conversation.

  She would have preferred to give the coffee a miss and creep away to her room, but he stood waiting for her to pass into a small adjoining section. It was circular and consisted entirely of windows. There was a cream padded seat running half-way round and brocade chairs facing. A small inlaid table stood in the centre of a round patterned carpet.

  Chris chose a window seat, thinking that he would prefer an armchair, but much to her annoyance he dropped down only a few feet away from her. In such an intimate atmosphere it was impossible not to make some attempt at conversation.